Classic Poem

When the Mausers are a-popping from some hazy bunch of brush,
And our Gatlings hustle up and start to sneeze;
When the Colonel says, “It's too dam' slow! We'll try 'em with a rush!”
Then who sings about “the flag that braved the breeze”?
Not a Johnnie in the reg'ment says a word about the flag,
Or sings verses with a patriotic tone;
A fella 's either layin' hot and wilted to a rag,
Or he's runnin', skirmish order, all alone.

Who ever heard a fella sing “My Country 't is of Thee,”
When the sun was makin' fritters of the air?
There ain't no time to think about the noble, brave and free,
When he's pickin' Mauser bullets from his hair.
He is workin' ('t is his business) and he's drawin' crumby pay
For his belly-ache and overtime and drink,
But when you put him on the job, he's there and there to stay,
If the fever does n't put him on the blink.
John Brady was my bunkie, and he knew a thunderin' pile
Of them sentimental songs what ladies sing
In theaters down near Mott Street, where a guy can get a smile
Or the punk cigar the bleary waiters bring;
Where the Prof. what thumps the keyboard takes a drink with every vet.,
(And when the boys are buyin' there's a few)
And he winks at some pink dollie what lays down her cigarette,
Waddles on the stage and sings, “The Boys in Blue.”

I have seen John Brady cryin' in a rummy music-hall
'Count of liquor and them songs; some is that way;
And I've seen that same old Johnny pin a Spaniard to a wall
Slick and easy like a fella pitchin' hay,
While the Spaniard did the cryin', but old Johnny only grinned,
Or cussed because the yella Dago's hand
Scraped a few potato peelin's off his beak and left it skinned;
And what Johnny said was not, “My Native Land.”

The song that Johnny favored when we hiked it down the road
Would n't suit a deacon's meetin' very well,
But it kept us all a-joggin' down the pike while Johnny crowed.
“An' when we ketch 'em won't we give 'em hell!”
…One day a Mauser bullet potted Johnny slick and clean,
He doubled up. I helped to bring him in.
He did n't send no “Dyin' love,” but lit up his dudeen
And says, “Jimmy, send my pay to Maggie Flynn.”

He never thought of glory and he never said a word
Like you hear some fellas spoutin' in a rhyme;
He just lay ca'm and cheerful, and the last thing that I heard
Was, “I guess, old pal, I'm through with doin' time.”
God knows I got no license to be writin' down this stuff,
But a fella must say something. Hully Gee!
He'd'a' done the job lots better than I can—that's sure enough,
If he was settin' here, instead of me.